A Rush And A Push And The Land Is Ours

The Project underwent its most brutal test of the season, deep in the underworld water caverns of Cumbria, where moon-faced children are bred like cattle and milked until their shattered toenails fall out. 10 years ago precisely, the first deep gash in the Alan S*ith lie was seen at Brunton Park and things would not change for a long time.

Charismatic John, therefore, was under pressure today like never before in this season of rebirth. The haunting sound of spinal bones being pounded into skin-drums was one that awaited the Wycombe team as they took to the pitch.

It mattered not one bit.

The Scottish side were torn asunder like Donald Campbell crashing into that bloody lake, and a late winner from The Johnson was enough to propel the Chairboys three clear in the race for title honours. As the players sank to their knees and gave thanks to the blood-orange moon, the locals pulled their own teeth out and exchanged hepatitis.

In other news, the Iron Nat Tyson revival at Nottingham Forest lasted one week as the wounded giants of east midlands football got gubbed at Huddersfield. Still, he can go and look at the European Cups in the trophy cabinet and bang one out for nostalgia's sake.

Shiver

The Meat Clinic has had severe problems with refrigeration in recent months. Just last summer our entire stock of rat wings had to be thrown away because Boon Corpsicle, the work experience kid, had set the fridge temperature to 34 degrees celsius instead of farenheit.

We skinned him alive and burnt his skull. A promise is a promise.

I was reminded of this fact on Saturday as Lovely John's The Project went to the next level with a 3-1 destruction of Grimsby Town. The lingering stench of the Iron Nat Tyson transfer deal shimmered into the freezing air as balding goal hero Charlie Unicorn combined in some style with Bald Ambassador Tommy Mooney.

The ice that formed on the crumbing Adams Park terraces and stands was there only to reflect the glory of the display on the pitch. Matt Bloomfield in particular was a driving rodent in midfield, pouring forward like the Burmese army until the northern council-fish eating folks were sent scurrying back with fear in their stomachs.

18 games without a generic gubbing is an epic achievement, and even if the curse of 11/26 is looming into view, it does not damage the glimmering artwork currently installed on the Desso turf.

The First Big Weekend

At 14:16 last Friday, I went into the yard behind the Meat Clinic and fired seven bullets into Carly, the shop's trusty mule. As peppery old folks shouted and swore at this act of alleged cruelty I had but one thing to say.

Nathan has gone. Gone north to the scab fields of Sherwood.

Thatcher's child raking in the Nottinghamshire pound and he barely left us with a peck on the cheek. But like Newsroom SouthEast, history is doomed to repeat itself and we have been here before.

Autumn 1993, and I can remember scrawling 'traitor' on the blackboards when Keith left us for Swindon. The villain that day was moustachioed wheeler dealer Greedy John, and how the circle has turned, for now he has to plan without his lithe 21st century leg-mechanic on the pitch.

But Wycombe achieved promotion without Scott in '93 and there is nothing that can derail Purring John's The Project now. Tam Mooney stepped into the breach on Saturday at Darlington and on his muscular shoulders our hopes now rest. Now that Iron Nat Tyson has packed his bags it comes as a relief, just like the doomed relationship with your sister-in-law that was always going to end in a sticky mess at a swingers party in Cirencester.

It may be painful to see Tyson smooching with a ginger man like Gary Megson but he is already yesterday's man round here, just another face alongside Sean Devine, Niall Thompson and John Kerr in the Meat Clinic Tapestry. If you see him, give him a hug from me.

We Are Sailing

The news that Ian Stonebridge has been taken away from Buckinghamshire in a security van is one that has been welcomed with ceaseless, mad cheering inside the Meat Clinic.

For let's be honest, Stonebridge is a turkey, and not the sort of plump, bone-free turkeys that we will be selling in the run up to Thanksgiving. And, by the way, Thanksgiving is an important date in the Meat Clinic because it was the fact that all the maniacs and nutters gathered in Devon all those years ago and set sail on the western sea that enabled Buckinghamshire to be free of such vile gin-drinkers and pavement-hoarders. The fact that their warmonger descendants now run the world is but a minor cross to bear.

And talking of naer-do-wells in Devon, that is now where Stonebridge is heading back to, his plain hair slightly tousled as he looks out of the window at Salisbury plain, wondering whether the GCSE-less soldiers will fire their crow-rockets into the side of his van before it arrives in Torquay. But they will not, as his fate has been sealed. As it was on the very day he arrived at Wycombe Wanderers, the tag of "Devon's Michael Owen" swinging from his neck. As reputations go, that one was akin to being called "Belgium's Michael Ryan", and it was one that Stonebridge lived up to, sadly.

His diseased defenders will point to a gathering of goals that he scored, but none of them are important and for some reason, no-one knows why, video proof of them simply does not exist. It has vanished, gone, disappeared, just like the man himself. He will try to rebuild his life in south Devon now, with long wistful walks on the beach and a doomed romance with a woman who runs a doughnut stall in the warmer months, but there is nothing left to offer, nothing at all.

Do not be surprised if the next time you hear about poor Ian, he is sailing into the western sea, with a scurvy look about him and a salty sea-tear running down his ruddy face. He has disappeared from view now, and we can only give thanks, preferably with a ripe, skinless turkey from your friendly, family Meat Clinic.